The Unified Alvetus Empire surged ahead in its development. Cities of steel and stone climbed into the skies, spewing smoke into the heavens while glowing with the eerie, constant light of Mana-powered energy. Every machine, every factory, every invention pulsed with Mana—refined, stored, and weaponized.
The Empire did not slow. It could not afford to.
Its rulers—emperors descended from the ancient line of Alvetus the Uniter—continued to wield power through blood, not merely name. These emperors possessed incredible concentrations of Mana, and with it, the ability to bend machines and systems to their will. They could power engines with mere thoughts, heal wounds with a gesture, and command fleets from vast distances. They were seen not only as sovereigns but as living conduits of divine force.
A new social structure solidified around this: the Mana hierarchy.
At the top stood those born with an abundance of Mana coursing through their veins. Nobles, officers, researchers, and engineers were chosen not solely by merit, but by the strength of their magical potential. Those without Mana—those "Bloodless"—were relegated to the lowest rungs of society: manual laborers, cleaners, servants, or worse—outcasts in the slums of the shining cities.
Dynasties flourished or failed based on the purity of their Mana. Marriages became strategic unions of bloodlines, arranged to enhance magical inheritance. Over generations, this practice created a towering aristocracy of Mana-rich families. At its pinnacle, the royal dynasty of Alvetus stood unmatched—so saturated in magical essence that legends claimed their rulers glowed when enraged.
By the year 1440, after generations of imperial rule and technological development, the first flying devices emerged. These machines, shaped like birds, could glide and scout, fluttering between towers and spires. They were marvels of engineering, but lacked practical use in warfare or industry.
Then came the breakthrough.
That same year, imperial scientists developed the first true rocket. Fueled by Mana-converted propulsion, it pierced the sky and brushed the edge of the void. Though the launch was primitive and the rocket never returned, the Empire had taken its first step into the stars.
This event marked the birth of a new era—the Era of Ascent.
By 1470, drone-like probes were being launched into orbit, each equipped with sensors to measure radiation, gravity, and environmental conditions. They relayed data directly to the Imperial Space Council, igniting a frenzy of innovation and ambition. Over the next two decades, the research intensified.
In 1490, the first crude spaceship was assembled. It was piloted by a Mana-sensitive soldier who controlled the vessel through a neural interface. The ship lasted ten hours in orbit before disintegrating upon re-entry—but it had proven that human spaceflight was possible.
With this, the Age of Expansion truly began.
Billions of credits were funneled into space programs. Research cities were constructed. Scientists and engineers were trained en masse. Vessels grew larger, more complex, and better shielded. And yet, as humanity climbed higher, the Earth below began to crack.
By 1497, unrest had begun to stir.
Though the Alvetus Empire remained dominant, unity was fragile. In distant provinces, resentment boiled beneath the surface. A small rebellion erupted in the western territories—an uprising of Mana-poor laborers and exiled Bloodless who had long lived under the empire's boot.
It was crushed quickly and decisively. The leaders were executed, their provinces brought under even stricter control. But the seeds of discontent had been planted.
Still, the Empire marched on.
By 1514, Earth's population had reached 15 billion. Massive arcology cities stretched across continents. Resources grew scarce, and the planet's delicate ecological balance began to teeter. The push for planetary colonization was no longer a dream—it was a necessity.
But fate had other plans.
In 1543, a second rebellion erupted—one so vast it became known as the Great Schism.
This was no isolated insurgency. It was an all-out civil war.
Entire fleets defected from the Empire. Provinces declared independence. Imperial Mechas clashed in burning cities. Spaceports were sabotaged. For six brutal years, the Empire bled.
When the dust settled, over 3 billion lives had been lost.
But nature's cruelty did not end there.
The war had devastated agricultural zones. Croplands were salted. Irrigation systems shattered. Famine swept across the globe. Another 2 billion died—starved, displaced, or consumed by chaos. Within a decade, Earth had lost a third of its people.
The Empire, bloodied and battered, did not fall.
Instead, the monarchy initiated sweeping reforms. Scientists who had once devoted themselves to war were reassigned to agricultural innovation. Mana was redirected into regrowing what had been lost. Towering farms sprouted into the skies. Water was purified. Soil was renewed.
And slowly, painfully—humanity began to heal.
By 1578, population numbers had recovered, reaching 17 billion. Cities had become vertical marvels of architecture. Crops were grown in suspended glass towers under artificial suns, regulated by Mana-infused systems. The lessons of famine and war, though bitter, had been burned into the soul of mankind.
The stars, once again, beckoned.
Space travel resumed. New ships were launched—stronger, faster, and longer-lasting. Hulls were forged from Mana-reinforced alloys. Pilots interfaced with navigation systems through direct neural links. In time, they discovered their prize.
Colonizable planets.
Many worlds were barren, lifeless—mere rocks. Others were scorched by radiation or covered in endless storms. But five planets stood out. They were habitable, Earth-like. Atmospheres rich in oxygen. Gravity tolerable. Some even shared Earth's vegetation—an eerie resemblance that puzzled scientists.
Over the next 170 years, the Empire colonized extensively. Five habitable planets became hubs of civilization. Seventeen barren planets—mostly deserts and wastelands—were mined for resources. Twelve sand-covered planets were settled by outposts and scientific bases. One water world served as a sanctuary for arcane research and underwater cultivation.
Most of the population flowed into the five prime colonies, while others were spread among the resource-rich or strategically positioned planets.
But peace, as always, was temporary.
As colonies matured, many began to question the rule of Alvetus. New ideologies emerged. Dissent grew. Local leaders forged alliances, built militaries, and developed their own fleets. A coalition of rebellious colonies rose in defiance.
Then came the greatest war humanity had ever known.
Entire star systems chose sides. Fleets clashed in orbit. Cities burned. Mechas battled not just on Earth, but on alien soil and in zero gravity. Billions died. It was a war that spanned worlds.
As the grip of the Empire weakened, the Alvetus dynasty made a fateful choice.
They retreated.
All remaining imperial forces withdrew to Earth. The planet was fortified. Defensive satellites, orbital cannons, anti-spacecraft weapons—everything the Empire had left was stationed on the homeworld.
Enemy fleets attempted bombardments. But Earth held. Imperial defenses destroyed wave after wave of invaders. For a time, the war reached a stalemate.
Until a loophole was found.
Rebel forces bypassed orbital defenses and landed ground armies. They armed civilians. Sabotaged Mana channels. With overwhelming numbers and insurgency tactics, they broke through.
The last remnants of the Alvetus military fell.
In desperation, the emperor made a final, terrible decision.
If they could not rule Earth—no one would.
Mana bombs were detonated across continents. Forests were incinerated. Oceans boiled. Cities crumbled. The sky turned black. Earth, once a jewel of civilization, became a wasteland.
The enemy, though victorious, found no triumph in ashes.
Alvetus was gone. The Empire shattered.
In the aftermath, the rebel alliance disbanded. What remained of humanity fractured into independent nations, coalitions, and war-torn confederations, each carving out power from the corpse of a world once united.
The age of Alvetus had ended.
But something had begun.